


The Winter Peacock

by lousylark



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-26 17:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousylark/pseuds/lousylark
Summary: Adrien wants to take Marinette to Winter Formal. Gabriel, as always, has other plans.





	1. Chapter 1

Something is different about Marinette. 

He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he’s been staring at her for at least thirty seconds straight now, trying to figure out what it is. It isn’t her makeup and it isn’t her hair — he’s well-versed enough as a model to be able to notice that sort of thing. But there is something glaringly different, and it bothers him that he can’t figure it out: like he’s finished a puzzle except for one missing piece.

“Adrien?”

The picture is there and he shouldn’t be disappointed, but the fact that he can’t find the piece is —

“Yo, earth to Adrien?” 

Adrien starts. Nino and Alya are both staring at him with wide eyes. They’re standing in the school foyer, waiting for lunch break to end. He’s been watching Marinette across the street as she walks down the sidewalk; she must’ve gone home for lunch.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I zoned out. What were you saying?”

“Just talking about the winter formal on Friday,” Nino says. He tries to follow Adrien’s gaze. “What are you staring at?”

“Oh, uh,” he stumbles, glancing quickly away from Marinette. “Just my father’s new advertisement by the bakery. You know, model things.”

Nino scoffs. “Classic Adrien.” 

Alya nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. “Please, you’d stare at posters of yourself on the street, too — if you had any.” Before Nino can retort, Alya notices her friend approaching the school. “Marinette!” she calls, waving.

Marinette looks at them and her expression brightens. Again, Adrien feels the itching sensation in the back of his mind that something is off. He tries to scrutinize her again without being too obvious: her clothes don’t look unusual, her eyes aren’t a different color. Why does she look different? 

She catches his gaze, and her bright smile diminishes into something softer, as is the norm. This is his second year at Françoise Dupont, and she still treats him differently than all the other students. He wish he knew why. He used to think she was still holding a grudge against him after the gum incident on the first day, but after knowing her for a year and a half or so, he had come to the conclusion that Marinette isn’t the type of girl to hold grudges. 

She meets them at the top of the stairs. “Hi guys!” she greets, looking at Nino and Alya. Then she looks at him. “H-Hi, Adrien.” 

Alya asks Marinette something about the homework due for their next class, which leaves Adrien another moment to look at her. She’s wearing a scarf today, even though it isn’t terribly cold. Christmas is only two weeks away and Paris hasn’t seen any snow yet, but throughout the past few days there had been excited murmuring around school that they’d see some this upcoming Friday night. 

“So anyway,” Nino says, picking up at the end of Alya and Marinette’s conversation. He looks back and forth from Marinette to Adrien. “Alya and I wanted to hit up the movies today after school. That new Sandy Claws film is out, you know, the one based on the akuma attack last year? You guys wanna tag along?”

Marinette opens her mouth to respond —

— but instead of words, she only manages a giant sneeze. 

“Achoo!”

And that’s when it hits him: Marinette is sick. It isn’t her makeup or her hair or her outfit that’s different. It’s the redness around her nose, the paleness of her cheeks — her whole demeanor screams sickness. 

Something inside of him softens. He hates seeing his friends sick. 

“Bless you,” he says, putting a hand on Marinette’s shoulder. She looks up at him with wide eyes, and he offers her a gentle smile.

“Girl, are you okay?” Alya asks, putting a hand against Marinette’s forehead.

But Marinette waves her hands in front of her face defensively. “It’s just a head cold. Nothing to worry about.” 

Adrien doubts that’s the truth, but he decides not to argue. He simply squeezes her shoulder before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“So the movies?” Nino prompts.

Marinette deflates like a balloon. “I wish I could, but I’ve got to babysit Manon tonight.”

Alya raises an eyebrow. “Madame Chamack is okay with you babysitting Manon even though you’re not feeling well?”

Marinette shakes her head. “Really, it’s nothing. I drank some orange juice this morning and everything. I’m feeling much — achoo!” 

Her whole body collapses in on itself like a folding chair as she sneezes again. Adrien feels another rush of pity, and tries to steady her by putting his hand on her back, right between her shoulders. 

Marinette sniffles. “Really. I’m okay.” Her voice sounds like someone put a clothespin over her nose. 

“I don’t think so,” Alya counters. “Listen, why don’t you let me take over your babysitting shift tonight? We can go see the movie later this week when we’re all free.”

Marinette shakes her head. “I promised Manon I’d watch The Grinch with her tonight.” Her nose crinkles, and she inhales sharply. It looks like she’s about to sneeze again, but then she releases the breath with a giant sigh. Looking at Alya, she concedes, “Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind if we tag-teamed.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t mind watching The Grinch!” Nino says. “What if we all come and help you babysit?”

“All of you?” Marinette asks, looking at each of them. Her gaze lingers on Adrien, and he can’t help but notice the wariness in her tone. 

“I don’t have any plans tonight, so I’m down,” he says. Then, seeing the way her eyes widen, he adds, “If that’s okay with you, Marinette.”

She smiles slightly, and some of the color returns to her cheeks. “Y-Yeah, that sounds like fun! Thanks, you guys. Manon will love all the company, too. I think she gets tired of playing with just me.”

Nino swings an arm around Adrien’s shoulders. “No worries! We’re great with kids.” 

Marinette looks at him and opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by another sneeze. This time it’s loud enough that several other kids in the foyer look their way.

Alya grins. “Come on, girl. Let’s find you a big stack of tissues before class starts.”

Marinette nods feebly, and allows her friend to guide her toward the girls’ bathrooms across the courtyard. Adrien watches them go.

“Poor Marinette,” Nino muses, echoing his own thoughts. 

He nods in agreement. “It must be tough to get sick this close to Christmas.” He pauses, turning back to look outside to the bakery. “I wonder if there’s something we can do for her.”

A pause, and then Nino says unexpectedly, “Well, dude, you could ask her to the Winter Formal this Friday.”

Adrien looks at his friend with one eyebrow raised. “I don’t see how that would make her feel better.”

“U-uh, well,” Nino stammers, “you know, Alya says she doesn’t have a date yet. And I guess she’s working really hard to organize everything since she’s the class rep. We were just thinking that, of all people, she should have someone to go with, you know?”

Adrien tilts his head to one side. “Is she not going with Alya?”

“Dude, Alya’s going with me.” 

“With you? Why can’t you all just go together?”

“Because it’s Winter Formal!” Nino says, like it’s obvious. 

“Nino, I’ve never been to a Winter Formal, let alone any school dance,” Adrien reminds him. There wasn’t a dance last year due to lack of school funds. This year, Mayor Bourgeois made a generous donation to make the dance possible — likely at the request, or command, of his daughter.

Realization dawns on Nino’s face like a Christmas tree lighting up. “Dude, right. Well, for Winter Formal, you usually go with, uh, you know…” he scuffs one shoe against the ground. “…a date. You know, which is why I’m going with Alya.” He looks up at Adrien again, his voice urgent. “But, uh, ya know, it doesn’t have to be! Like if you asked Marinette, you guys could just go as friends. But everyone’s paired off already, and I guess Marinette’s been so busy she didn’t ask anyone to be her date. You know?”

Adrien sighs. “Well, I’d love to ask Marinette, but I can’t even go to Winter Formal. I’ve got an important photo shoot this Friday night.”

Nino growls. “Dude, you’re kidding. Why does your dad always schedule photo shoots on the important days?”

Adrien shrugs. “Don’t ask me.” 

He sighs, looking back toward Marinette and Alya. Nino is right: out of everyone in their grade, Marinette should have someone to go to Winter Formal with. He would love to take her, if he could. The alternative was Chloe, and, while they were friends, he wasn’t too keen on spending an entire night being the sole object of her attention. 

As if reading his thoughts, Nino commented, “You know, I’m surprised Chloe hasn’t demanded that you take her yet.”

Adrien ignores the gentle rib at his childhood friend, instead rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Well, actually, now that you mention it, I think she’s brought it up a few times, and I just didn’t really connect the dots. I didn’t get that it was supposed to be a date thing, and it’s not like I can go anyway.”

Nino stares at him, and then says point-blank: “Dude, you’re so oblivious sometimes.” Before Adrien can retort, he goes on, “Have you at least asked your dad about rescheduling the photo shoot? It’d be really chill if you could come.”

Adrien sighs. “No, I haven’t asked, but you know how that usually goes.”

Nino scoffs. “That I do.” 

He drops the topic. Nino doesn’t like talking about the time he was akumatized, though he hadn’t been the first of their friends and he almost certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The school bell rings. As the students start gathering their bags and finding friends, Adrien looks at Nino. 

“I’ll talk to my dad, but I can’t promise anything,” he says. “Cool?”

Nino fist bumps him. “Cool. Let’s go catch up with Marinette and Alya. Alya’s kinda scary when her friends get sick. They might need help carrying all those tissues.”


	2. Chapter 2

Marinette is miserable.

She’s a firm believer in the idea that a person is only as sick as they believe themselves to be, and she believes that she is _ill._

Alya puts a cold wash cloth against her head. She’s been taking care of Marinette since school got out two hours ago.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to watch Manon tonight?” she asks, obvious disapproval in her tone.

“Totally,” Marinette says, squishing the cloth against her forehead to revel in its coolness. She lets out a blissful sigh. “See? I already feel better. And I can take more tylenol in an hour. I’ll be fine.” She sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed but keeping the cloth pressed against her face. “Besides, Adrien is coming! To my house!”

But even as she says it, her face falls. Normally, the prospect of Adrien coming over to hang out would be earth-shatteringly _wonderful,_ but her sickness is putting a cloud over the sun and making her mostly indifferent to the idea — a true miracle, Tikki would say. For once, she finally has her priorities in order.

“Speaking of which,” she says, looking around her room. She looks at Alya with her best puppy eyes. “Will you help me take down these posters before he comes over?”

Alya grins. “Nah, you should leave ‘em up. Middle school boys are really into stalker girlfriends.”

Marinette pouts. “Harsh."

But Alya stands and starts helping her take down the various posters nonetheless, even rubbing some of the tack off the wall where it sticks.

As Marinette places one of her favorite shots of Adrien in a black sweatshirt in a pile on her desk, she muses, “You know, maybe I won’t put them back up after this. It is a _little_ creepy. Or I’ll just put up one or two instead of…” she trails off, quickly counting the posters, “…twenty-five.”

Alya whirls on her. “Okay, you’re way sicker than you’re letting on if you’re really talking about taking down your Adrien collection. I think we should call Mrs. Chamack and —" 

Before she can continue, there’s a knock at the bakery door downstairs, shortly followed by Manon’s distinct voice crying for Marinette.

Marinette smiles. “Come on, Alya. Can’t keep Manon waiting.”

* * *

 

Adrien loves the Dupain-Cheng residence. The smells, the colors, the warmth — all of it combined makes him feel calm. He can’t help but envy Marinette for her being able to come home to this every day after school.

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng,” he says, taking off his shoes and leaving them by the welcome mat.

“Of course, Adrien!” she says, smiling. “We’re always happy to have Marinette’s friends over, and it’s so nice of you all to help her babysit.”

Mr. Dupain-Cheng swings enters the foyer from the bakery door, holding a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies. “To tell the truth, Adrien, our girl’s a bit sicker than she’s letting on. You look after her, alright?” He hands him the plate of cookies. “And take this up with you. Manon loves ‘em.”

Adrien nods. “Will do, Mr. Dupain-Cheng.”

He smiles. “Just call me Tom, Adrien. We’re not big on formalities around here.”

“And call me Sabine,” his wife adds.

Adrien smiles. “Will do, Mr. Tom and Miss Sabine.”

Tom laughs heartily. “We’ll get there. Alright, head on up. They’re all in Marinette’s room. Sabine and I will be down here if you kids need anything.”

“Thanks!” he says, and just before he puts his foot on the first step, he gestures with the plate of cookies and tries for a pun: “That’s really _sweet_ of you.”

Tom and Sabine both look at him strangely for a moment, and then they dissolve into a fit of laughter.

Adrien can barely contain his smile as he treks up the stairs. Just before he opens the hatch to Marinette’s room, he hears Tom say from the foyer, “He’s a good kid. Funny, too.” 

His heart blooms like a flower as he raps once on the little trap door.

Barely a second passes by before the door swings open to reveal Alya’s face.

“Shh.” She holds up one finger to her lips. “Marinette’s asleep.”

She moves aside so Adrien can climb up into the bedroom.

“That didn’t take long,” he says, careful to keep his voice down.

Alya shook her head. “Right. One minute we’re telling Manon about the winter formal on Friday, and then she’s snoring mid-sentence.”

He looks over to Marinette’s bed. Sure enough, she’s fast asleep: she’s sitting upright but her head is propped up on a cat-shaped pillow, and her chest rises to a slow, steady rhythm.

“We’re playing the quiet game,” Alya says, taking the plate of cookies from him.

“I’m winning!” Manon pipes up from the other side of the room. 

Alya winks at her. “Not anymore.”

Manon clamps her mouth shut, and motions with her hand like she’s zipping her lips and eating the key. Adrien smiles.

“Nino and I are gonna go make some popcorn, and then we’re gonna start the movie,” Alya says. She looks over at Manon. “You wanna come help us? We can take a break from the quiet game if we’re in the kitchen.”

Manon grins. “Yes. But I want a cookie!”

She bounds over to Alya, who lowers the plate so Manon can reach. “Just one for now. You can have more when the movie starts.”

“Not unless I eat ‘em all first,” Nino jokes, moving from his spot on Marinette’s desktop chair to join them.

 Manon makes a face at him, and Alya shakes with quiet laughter.

We’ll go get the popcorn and some drinks,” she whispers to Adrien. “Can you look after Marinette? She should stay asleep, but, you know, just in case she wakes up.” 

He nods. “Leave it to me.”

 Without another word — not even from Manon, which is impressive — they’re climbing down the stairs. Their tiptoeing is strangely reminiscent of a movement from _The Nutcracker_ ballet. He smiles at the thought.

After quietly closing the hatch behind them, he straightens back up and looks around Marinette’s room. He hasn’t been here for some time — not since he and Marinette competed together in the Paris video game tournament — but it doesn’t look much different.

If anything, it’s even more colorful than the last time he saw it. His gaze sweeps over all the knick-knacks and designs that she’s made — he lingers on the album cover she designed for Jagged Stone, which sits on a little shelf of honor next to her computer. But there are lots of other impressive things to look at, too. Some of them he recognizes, like the banner from Alix and Kim’s race almost a year ago, and others he doesn’t, like a little handmade Chat Noir plush on her nightstand. He smirks — he hadn’t realized Marinette was one of his closet fans. 

Then, he notices a sketchbook next to her sewing machine. The book sits on top of a bolt of shimmering blue fabric.

 His curiosity gets the better of him, and he tiptoes over to the book. He’s surprised to find the pages covered in dress designs — _beautiful_ dress designs, at that. Each one is a little different from the others, and then —

— and then he turns the page to find a final, fully fleshed-out color pencil rendering of a dress. It’s midnight blue and beautiful. It takes his breath away.

That’s when it hits him: this must be her dress for the Winter Formal. He smiles, feeling a strange warmth rise to his cheeks. Of course Marinette Dupain-Cheng would design her own dress for a school dance. How very like her, and how very… _amazing_.

“Adrien?”

He jumps. 

Marinette blinks sleepily at him. He doesn’t know quite what to say.

After a slightly awkward silence, she asks, “Am I dreaming?”

He can’t help but smile at that. “No, you just fell asleep.”

Her eyes widen to the size of teacup saucers. She tries to jump out of bed, but the minute her feet touch the floor, she wavers. He reaches out a hand to steady her as she rubs her head.

“Where’s Manon?” she asks, and he feels so _sad_ when he hears the groggy sickness in her voice.

“She’s with Alya and Nino downstairs,” he says quickly so as not to worry her. “Don’t worry, I don’t think you were asleep for very long. They’re making popcorn. They wanted me to stay up here in case you woke up.”

“Oh.”

He realizes that his hand is still on the small of her back. He slowly takes it away so she doesn’t fall.

She looks up at him with wide, glossy eyes. “I’m not dreaming?”

He chuckles. “No, Marinette. At least, I don’t think so, because then I’d have to be dreaming too.”

“You are a dream,” she muses, and he wonders if maybe he should get her parents. “I mean, I think you’re a — no, that’s not right. Now I wish this were a dream.” She smacks a hand against her forehead and groans. “I think I should sit down.”

“Great idea,” he says, smiling at her obvious lack of lucidity, and holds her hand until she sits back down on the bed.

She reaches for the tissue box on her nightstand, and Adrien can’t help but cave in to his curiosity. “Marinette?”

“Mhmm?”

He looks at the sketchbook near her sewing machine. “Did you design this?”

“The dress?” She blows her nose, then says, “Yeah. It didn’t turn out the way I wanted to, though.”

He looks at her disbelievingly. “You’re kidding, right? It’s beautiful.” Running a finger along the edge of the page, he continues, “This belongs in one of my father’s magazines.”

She blinks at him. Her cheeks flush pink — probably because of the sickness. “That’s…thank you, Adrien.”

She gets up from the bed, wobbling less than the first time and bringing a blanket with her, wrapping it around her shoulders like a cape. Adrien watches her carefully. This is the first time in a while that they’ve talked without her stumbling over her words, and he can’t help but wish it were always like this. He wishes she didn’t treat him differently — but even more than that, he wishes he knew why she did _._

“I couldn’t decide whether I wanted the dress in midnight blue or lilac,” she explains, flipping back a page and pointing at some of her original sketches for reference.

“I like the midnight blue,” he says. “It goes better with your eyes and your skin tone.”

She nods. “That’s what I decided, too. But the final draft still feels like it’s missing something. Like, a theme, or a purpose.”

Adrien shakes his head. “I think it’s perfect. You’re gonna wear it to the Winter Formal, right?”

“That _was_ the plan.” She sighs, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “But to be honest, I don’t even know if I’m _going_ to the Winter Formal anymore.”

“Not going?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t you?”

She sits on the edge of her bed. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t feel well enough to sew, so I won’t be able to finish the dress in time. And I don’t even like the dress I designed, and I don’t have a date, and I have lots of homework I could catch up on this weekend —“

“Hold on, Marinette,” he interjects. He sits next to her on the bed, but she swiftly avoids eye contact. “The dress you designed is amazing. And I’ll bet that if you took a sick day tomorrow you could stay home and finish it.”

She smiles sadly, and says almost to herself, “I don’t get the luxury of sick days.”

He isn’t entirely sure what she means by that, but the statement resonates with him like a gong ringing inside his ribcage. He shakes his head, ridding his mind of the ironies that try to bubble up in his subconscious.

“Regardless, you shouldn’t not go to Winter Formal just because you don’t have a date,” he adds.

Her expression turns suddenly dour. She folds her arms over her chest, and the blanket falls from her shoulders into a heap at the base of her back. “W-Well, that’s easy for you to say.” Her voice softens. “After all, you can have your pick of any of the girls at school to take on Friday night, Mr. Model Agreste.”

He picks the blanket up and replaces it on her shoulders, looking at her with what he hopes is sincerity. “I can’t even go on Friday. I have a photo shoot.” He doesn’t know why he feels like there are six billion butterflies flapping around in his stomach. Probably because he’s hungry. “And even if I could go, even if I had my pick of anyone in the school to go with — which I don’t,” he says, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, “there’s only one girl I’d ask.”

She finally makes eye contact with him. Her eyes are wide with some feeling he doesn’t recognize, and —

— and he’s never noticed before, but those sky-blue irises are uncannily familiar.

At that moment, the door to Marinette’s room opens. Both of them jump; Marinette levitates so far off the bed that the blanket falls from her shoulders again.

Sabine pops her head up into the room.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” she says, looking toward her daughter. “Adrien, could you give us a second? I need to take Marinette’s temperature.”

“Mom, I told you I don’t have a fever,” Marinette says, and the hint of a whine in her voice makes Adrien chuckle.

 Sabine narrows her eyes. “Yes, and Manon doesn’t love chocolate chip cookies. Come on sweetheart, let me be a mother.”

Marinette sighs, but wordlessly stands up and starts trudging toward the stairs nonetheless. Sabine guides her through the trap door with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Watching them go, Adrien feels just a hint of sadness pull at his heart strings. Sabine reminds him of —

“What was _that?”_

Adrien sighs. Plagg whizzes out of his inside jacket pocket, smirking suggestively.

“What was what?”

“ _Please_ ,” he says, crossing his little arms over his chest. “That whole mush fest with Marinette!”

Adrien’s cheeks feel warm all of a sudden. “Come on, Plagg, that was nothing. She’s sick, and I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

“Always the ‘good friend’ stuff with her,” Plagg says, whizzing over toward her sewing machine. “Ooh, that _is_ pretty, and I don’t even _like_ foofty stuff like that.” He whizzes back over to Adrien. “So what about ‘there’s only one girl I’d ask?’ ‘Cause you were definitely talking about her, right? What happened to your massive crush on Ladybug? 

Adrien looks at the floor. “C’mon, Plagg, it’s not like I can ask Ladybug to a school dance.”

Plagg flies right up to his face. “Hmm. Something tells me you’d rather ask pig-tail girl, anyway!”

He smirks. “Well, after all, it’d be hard to find a boutonniere that matches Ladybug’s costume.”

“So you _were_ gonna ask her!”

“No. Yes? Maybe,” he sighs, flopping onto Marinette’s bed. “Drop it, Plagg. It’s not like I can go to the dance, anyway.” 

Plagg bounces on the bed next to Adrien. “I don’t know, kid. I think if you showed your dad that design of Marinette’s, even _he_ would have a hard time saying no to you taking her.”

Adrien blinks.

He sits up straight on the bed, then snaps his gaze over to Marinette’s sketchbook.

“You know, Plagg,” he muses, taking out his phone and opening the camera app. “That might not be such a bad idea.”


	3. Chapter 3

Later that night, Adrien stands poised outside his father’s office, phone in hand and argument-ready. 

The remainder of the movie night went smoothly, and without any other moments of questionable nature with Marinette. Well, maybe that wasn’t completely true — she fell asleep again, this time with her head lolling over to rest on his shoulder, but Plagg hadn’t given him any grief for it on the walk home. 

And now he stands before his father’s door. It’s getting late and he knows this is hopeless —

— but he has to try. 

His father’s voice suddenly carries through the office door. “Excuse me?” 

A pause. He must be on the phone. Adrien puts his ear against the door to listen.

“No, absolutely not.” He sounds angry. “Tell Angélique that my offer is non-negotiable: the photo-shoot must be this Friday at seven.” 

His father doesn’t say anything for a while, and Adrien wonders if he’s hung up the phone. But then, he hears a deep, throaty growl. 

“My son’s worth is inestimable, and if Angélique has any qualms with that, she can speak to me directly. Good night.” 

A moment passes, and then Adrien hears a loud slam. 

Plagg suddenly appears over his right shoulder, and asks in a quieter-than-usual voice, “Is now really a good time? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“Hide, Plagg,” he hisses, and his Kwami conceals himself in his shirt pocket once again.

Adrien waits for a moment to make sure that his father is really off the phone. Then, after a deep breath, he raises his fist and knocks on the door. 

A heartbeat of silence that seems to stretch a full hour, and then: “Yes?”

Adrien swallows. Without a moment more of hesitation, he twists the doorknob and pokes his head inside his father’s office. 

Gabriel doesn’t even look up from his tablet. “What is it, Nathalie?” He sounds more composed than he did moments before on the phone, which gives Adrien some hope.

He clears his throat. “Uh, actually…”

At the sound of his son’s voice, Mr. Agreste looks up and sets down his tablet. 

“Adrien,” he says, a half-greeting. “It’s late. You should be in your room getting ready for bed.”

“I know.” He opens the door and steps fully into the room before his father can protest. “But I needed to talk to you about something important.”

Gabriel pinches his nose between his forefinger and his thumb. “Your timing is abysmal. Can it not wait until tomorrow?”

Adrien shakes his head. “No, it can’t.”

His father wasn’t expecting that, and he knows it. He peers at Adrien over the rim of his glasses. 

“Go on, then,” he says, waving a hand. 

And Adrien wasn’t expecting that. Now that he doesn’t have to fight for the right to speak —

— he isn’t quite sure what to say. 

And so he stands by the door, mouth slightly agape, waiting for the words to come to him. 

He suddenly remembers Marinette’s design, and how much she really deserves to go to the dance that Friday — and it all comes to him in a heartbeat. 

“This Friday at school is the Winter Formal,” he starts, slowly, chewing on each word to make sure it comes out right. “It’s the school dance. I want to go.” 

Gabriel nods. “And so you shall.”

“No, you don’t — wait, what?”

Father and son stare at each other, Adrien’s expression aghast and his father indifferent. 

“Your photoshoot is at the Winter Formal,” Gabriel explains. “Surely Nathalie didn’t neglect to mention this to you?”

He feels his ears get red. “No, she didn’t mention it to me. Wait, can we back up a little? I don’t understand. I thought —“

“Patience, Adrien,” his father admonishes, and Adrien’s mouth clamps shut. “I arranged for you to go to Winter Formal with Angélique Dupont’s daughter, from La Mode Angélique. The photoshoot at the dance was meant to be a sort of…Christmas truce between our competing industries.” He suddenly scowls, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. “Of course, her secretary just called to try and cancel the shoot — Friday night no longer fits Angélique’s daughter’s schedule.”

“You arranged a date for me?” His voice rises in pitch just a little; he can’t help it.

His father’s gaze is cold. “A photoshoot is hardly a date, Adrien. That the shoot happens to take place at your school dance is merely for publicity. You need to appear more accessible to the public, and my business —“

But he breaks off, not finishing the sentence. Instead, he clears his throat. “No matter. The shoot has fallen through; we will reschedule for another location with someone else —“

“No,” Adrien says. 

A pause. His father raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “No?”

Adrien swallows. “What were you going to say? About your business?”

Gabriel crosses his arms. “It is not your place to ask.”

“Not my place? Father, I’m as much a part of this business as you are, and you know it.”

The cold silence that follows tells Adrien that he’s crossed a line. The last time it happened he was twelve, arguing with his father about how he didn’t like a certain design he was meant to wear for a photoshoot, and he hadn’t been allowed to leave the house for three weeks. He can only imagine the punishment that is no doubt soon to come. 

His father, however, surprises him by closing his eyes and letting out a long hum. 

“You’re so much like your mother, sometimes I forget you’re mine, too.” 

Adrien’s heart gets stuck in his throat. Before he can even begin to wonder what he means by that, however, Gabriel speaks again. 

“There have been…criticisms,” he says, matching his fingertips together in a triangle, “regarding my business. Some say I am too cold, and it has been impacting my designs’ standing in the modern fashion realm. For a long time, I relied on you being the face of my company to propel me toward a…warmer image, for lack of better term. But with the absence of your mother…” he trails off. “We must appear as a force of goodwill and philanthropy to the public or else our reputation is tarnished.” He lets out an uncharacteristic sigh. “Your mother always took care of these…unsavory reputational dithers. I am less practiced than she.” 

Adrien looks at his father strangely. “So you scheduled a photo shoot with Angélique Dupont’s daughter, at my school dance, to boost Agreste Industries’ reputation?”

“More or less.”

Adrien grins. “This is perfect, then. I have a way we can both get what we want.”

His father looks at him — not quite curiously, but with piqued interest. “Is that so?”

He nods and holds out his phone. “Look at this. My friend Marinette designed this dress for the Winter Formal this Friday.”

Gabriel eyes the phone suspiciously, but then takes it from his son. His eyes widen. “A classmate of yours designed this?”

“Yeah. Isn’t it great?”

Gabriel strokes his chin thoughtfully. “It’s…stunning.”

Adrien’s heart soars with pride at the rare compliment. “I knew you’d like it. You know, she won that hat competition you hosted last year.”

“This is the same girl who designed the pigeon feather hat?”

Adrien nods, a little surprised that he had remembered.

“She has improved since then,” he muses. Then, he holds the phone back out to Adrien. “But what is your point in showing me this, Adrien?”

He sucks in a breath. Here goes nothing. 

“Let me go to Winter Formal with Marinette,” he says. “Fund her dress. Tweak the design, if you want to. But include it in your holiday issue of Agreste Industries and write a little featurette on Marinette. She’s perfect: straight-A-student, super nice, the class representative, and an aspiring fashion designer. Have her wear her own dress to the dance on Friday and include her in the photoshoot.” Unsure if his father is convinced, he adds, “Think of the headline: ‘Gabriel Agreste funds local aspiring fashion designer’s dream dance,’ or…something like that.”

His father says nothing at first. He simply stares out the opposite window with half-lidded eyes. The office is silent save the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. 

Then, he asks, “Is she becoming?”

“What?”

“Your friend, Marinette. You seem fond enough of her, but will she wear the dress as well as she has designed it?”

Adrien closes his eyes for a moment, thinking, remembering Marinette’s radiant smile and her smooth skin; the brilliant blue of her eyes and her shiny, soft hair like the midnight sky —

He opens his eyes again, and, shaking away his embarrassment at the realization, admits, “Yes. She’s, uh, probably the prettiest girl in my grade. Leagues prettier than Chloe, and probably Angélique Dupont’s daughter, too.”

Gabriel purses his lips. “Interesting.”

Adrien shoves his phone in his pocket. Suddenly, with his burning cheeks and his tongue-tiedness, he wants nothing more than to retreat to his bedroom and bury himself in a pile of blankets. Still, he pushes on.

“So?” he prompts. 

Gabriel pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose again. Then, with a relinquishing sigh, he says, “Bring your friend Marinette to my office immediately after school tomorrow. Do not be late, or I will rescind my offer. And let it be known that I can and will not hesitate to rescind my offer at any point in this process.” His gaze flicks up to lock eyes with Adrien. “Do you understand?”

Adrien beams. “Yes.” Breathlessly, he adds, “Thank you, father. You have no idea what this means to me.”

Gabriel waves a hand. “Yes, yes, now go to bed before I change my mind.”

And despite the cold dismissal, Adrien leaves his father’s office and returns to his room with a skip in his step. For the first time in his life, he went to spar with his father and won.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the lucky charm Marinette gave to him so many months ago, staring at the strand of beads fondly and with an inexplicable joy. It hasn’t failed him yet.


End file.
